The Great Gatsby Continued
by emmy m.d
Summary: This is an epilogue I wrote to The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.


"It was so terrible about that young man."

My mother's words stirred me from my reverie. It was as though she had opened my mind like a book and read my thoughts aloud. As if she knew that I had been thinking about West Egg, New York, and Gatsby.

I had been back home a little over a month now. But even in these peaceful, unrushed surroundings of the Midwestern town I grew up in, I hadn't been able to shake the fast paced, electric tragedy that was the East. Even now, as I sat in the warm, homey parlor of my childhood home, the snow drifting listlessly down and blanketing the quiet, empty, already darkened streets of my hometown; I was thinking about Jordan, the parties, Daisy, Gatsby, and yes, George Wilson.

"I'm sorry, did you say something Mother?"

"I said that it was a pity about that young man who was shot in New York. What did you say his name was again? Gatley was it?"

"Gatsby. And yes, it was a pity." So much more than just a simple pity, I thought to myself. It was a revolting tragedy. One of the greatest injustices I should ever witness.

"I"m glad you're back Nick," my mother continued, "With such goings on in New York, I feel so much safer with you here at home."

"Well I'm glad to be back Mother. I've sort of lost my taste for life in the east."

I got up, went over to where my mother sat knitting, and kissed her lightly on her cheek. I wandered over to the window and watched the snow fall, creating a gentle haze; a silent curtain to the world.

"That's the way things are in the big city," my father muttered, looking up from his paper. "It's nothing but hustle and bustle. Wild parties, dancing ,drinking, fast cars and fast people. It's a wonder more of them aren't killed in accidents, much less by lunatics with guns. They're all nothing but a bunch of lunatics if you ask me."

"Now Henry, you know that's not so. Tom and little Daisy live in New York, and they're not lunatics." My mother looked pointedly at my father, but he didn't look a bit abashed.

Tom and little Daisy, I thought as I gazed out the window. No, they're not lunatics I guess, but they're not human either. They are a part of the east. They are money and richness and the unconscious of life and death. They can destroy minds, bodies, hearts and lives with hardly a thought. They play their rich people's game of life, and if any of the other players get hurt, then that's too bad. And it the game gets out of hand, and God knows it does; it did; they can shut themselves up int heir East Egg palace with its green gardens until all the unpleasantness goes away.

"Well," my father continued, "People don't get shot for no reason. This Gatsby fellow was probably tied up in some group of lunatic crooks, or maybe he was fooling around with somebody's wife, but people don't get shot for no reason."

"Henry," my mother once more admonished, "You don't know what went on there, and besides, you shouldn't talk about someone who is dead. Especially someone you don't know."

"All I'm saying is, this guy Gatsby was rich and threw big parties. He probably turned a lot of girls' heads. Only one time he picked the wrong girl, a girl married to some chap like Tom Buchanan, who was willing to stand up and fight for what was his."

A cold chill chased down my spine all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes when I heard what my father said. Yes, I thought, he picked the wrong girl, a girl married to someone like Tom Buchanan. I thought how ironic it all was. My father believes that Gatsby had been shot by a jealous husband. It was George Wilson who pulled the trigger, but it was a jealous husband that killed Gatsby, a husband like Tom Buchanan. I also thought it ironic that me father should mention Tom's name in connection with Gatsby. If only he knew. If only he knew that the real man was not Tom, but Gatsby; poor, poor Gatsby. I thought back about Jay Gatsby. Rich, surrounded by gay, admiring people all of the time, but he was nothing but all alone. I know now that Gatsby was a lonely man; a betrayed man in a sea of strangers in his own home. On the outside, he seemed to have everything a man could want or need, but he had nothing. Nothing but a green light at the end of a dock to chase and the dream of a girl. And once he caught the light and got the girl, it turned out to be less then expected. The shining light built her up in his mind to more than any one girl could be, setting him up for another disappointment. My mother said it was a pity he died; perhaps it was a pity he lived.

"Well," said my father, turning back to his paper, "he was probably a good-for-nothing who got exactly what he deserved."

"No! He didn't get what he deserved!" I whirled around in a rage and faced my startled parents, my voice loud but the words choking in my throat, "Jay Gatsby deserved better. He deserved to live, he deserved to have what he wanted. He didn't deserve to New York, he didn't deserve West Egg or East Egg. He didn't deserve Dan Cody, or Daisy or Tom. He deserved to be as happy as anyone else, as anyone can be. Not to be lonely, betrayed and dead."

My parents stared at me open-mouthed as my rage choked off my words and left me staring back at them, trembling. Then my ferocity faded to sorrow, to pity, to sadness for Gatsby, and I ran from the room before the tears I hadn't yet shed, but knew were coming filled my eyes. I ran into the night and stood in the falling snow, sobbing for life's unfairness to Gatsby. After a while I got hold of myself but still stood in the snow, thinking of Gatsby. I knew it was over now, I had cried for him and felt better. I felt better that someone had cried for him, that at least someone was sorry he had died and sorry he had lived. But it was over. From then on, it would be just an unpleasant event in my past. A troublesome memory and a terrible secret, but also an invaluable lesson in life.

As I stood in the night, blinking snowflakes from my lashes and thinking, I heard the sounds of sleigh bells and laughter. I glanced up to see a horse drawn sleigh glide under the street light. In it were several young people, boys and girls, laughing, on their way home from a Christmas party. One of the girls had golden hair and one of the boys was in uniform.

God help the world's young Gatsbys.


End file.
